Constable Pud?

I felt ill at ease after returning to England in late 1946 from my wartime stint and post-war activities in the Far East.

While it was nice to go to the  greyhound races with friends and I enjoyed the novelty of being bought beers by the regulars at my Dad's social club, lack of employment was a worrying thought.  I was constantly pondering "What now?"

My resume was sparse seeing as my education had abruptly ended after the Germans bombed my school, and while I had a fair bit of RAF experience, there wasn’t any call for rear air gunners in post-war London.

My dad had started up a construction company after the war and it was really thriving. He wanted me to learn a trade and join the business, but after my years of being overseas I felt a sense of independence and that didn’t include working for my father. Also, I’d seen some of his workers at the yard were missing digits.

I didn't have to use any of my 80£ discharge pay to be suitably attired for job interviews, having been provided with a natty pinstriped suit and a new pair of shoes at the demobbing centre. Yet, I had no idea where to apply.

There were openings in the Palestinian military police, which sounded right up my alley, but when I went down to apply I was told I didn’t look like military material. The recruiter said "You just got home! You don't want to go back overseas. Why not consider the London police?"  Hmm, there’s a thought. Why not?

After sleeping on it, I decided to announce at the family breakfast my intention to join the London Metropolitan Police Force. My siblings reacted by falling about laughing, which only made me more determined.

My father, stung over my decision to not work for him, muttered "Policeman? Can't you think of something more respectable"? I'm still scratching my head over that one.

Feeling my chances were good considering I was young, fit and eager, I headed off to the recruitment centre in high spirits, but my confidence waned when I noticed the other applicants were also young, fit ex-servicemen.

I was also nervous about meeting the height requirement, which was 5 feet 10 inches at the time. My warrant officer papers stated my height as 5 foot 9-1/2, so I decided to borrow my Dad’s shoes. He was rather vain and had lifts inserted in them to increase his stature.

When I went in for measurement, the retired policeman in charge of that task looked down at my shoes, gave me a sly grin and announced "5-10, I see". So, I made it over the height hurdle and was then sent off to appear before the police selection committee.

In retrospect, I may not have made the best first impression. When the senior officer asked why I thought I’d make a good police constable, my flippant response was that it didn't look like awfully hard work. Luckily my chances weren't squashed, but I noticed one representative of the committee take an instant dislike to me.

I was then warned that most single men would be stationed to London’s seedy east-end because they needed a few "thief catchers".  That suited me just fine as I was still fuming over having had my coveted raincoat and other personal items stolen from me at the demob centre shortly after I’d landed home!

I didn’t find the entrance exams too taxing, probably because I’d been an air-gunner for the past 18 months and was used to studying and detail.

After a bit of a nerve-wracking wait I got the okay. It was satisfying to go home and tell the family I'd been readily accepted and would soon be headed off to Hendon Police College to prepare for what ended up being a 35 year career in law enforcement.

My mother teased me by suggesting I’d look silly wearing a bobby’s helmet because it resembled an upside down pudding bowl. This resulted in a family nickname of “Puddin’head” which unfortunately persisted.

The girl next door also got in on the act and, after 70 years of marriage, more often than not calls me “Pud”.